


Create the space I can't make

by SinkingSims



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Allergies, Don't Like Don't Read, M/M, Sneezing, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering, asexual jon sims, i am definitely the first person to ever use that tag lmao, jon returns the favor in a different way, martin helps jon sneeze, sneeze kink martin blackwood, trans jon sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:01:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23306467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinkingSims/pseuds/SinkingSims
Summary: It’s almost funny, in a dark sort of way, that the more Jon’s humanity is dissolved by eldritch monstrosity, the more the remaining shreds of it have begun to bleed through in ways he no longer has the energy to bandage with a sour demeanor. Jon’s exhaustion has brought on a new sort of vulnerability, varied in its forms but all ultimately pointing to need. Sometimes need means letting himself be held by Martin, whining softly as Martin plants careful kisses to his neck, his shoulders, the curve of his spine. Other times need is much less poetic, like when he finds himself awake in bed before dawn with that familiar, frustrating tickle in his nose.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 13
Kudos: 98





	Create the space I can't make

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Drive Me Home' by Adult Mom.
> 
> (Read the tags. If it's not your thing, just skip it. Don't embarrass me, etc etc.)

Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, hates his allergies. Not unusual, of course. No one particularly enjoys watery eyes or a scratchy throat or an itchy, stuffed up nose when they’re just trying to get through a day. It’s especially frustrating when said allergies are triggered by dust and grime, and your new job title comes with dust the likes of which you’ve never before seen, on every imaginable surface in your dimly-lit office in the damp basement of a nearly two-hundred year old building. 

In Jon’s case, the irritating nature of the symptoms themselves is compounded by a powerful aversion to the senseless social norms surrounding them, namely the odd rituals around _sneezing._ Good lord, he hates sneezing. It’s not that he hates how it _feels._ In fact, the physical sensation of a good sneeze sends a pleasurable tingle throughout his body that he’d sooner die than to admit out loud. What he dreads about sneezing is the possibility of being overheard by some sorry stranger and getting a _bless you_ , or worse, an _Are you alright?_ The concern feels unnatural, foreign. It feels _fake_ , and that gives him the sense he’s being mocked. He doesn’t know what to _do_ with it. So he avoids such interactions at all costs. He holds back the urge to sneeze whenever possible, and when that fails, he’s taken to stifling them. Stifled sneezes do little to relieve the throbbing headache brought on by angry sinuses. But at least it keeps them quiet. 

He’s tried medication of course; he’s not a fool. But antihistamines make him feel foggy and sluggish, which is even worse than the allergies themselves, and simply intolerable for a man as busy as he is. It’s normally not a big deal to simply power through an allergy flare-up with a few hold-backs and some stifles, but this is the first job he’s had in which he’s been exposed to this much dust, and worse, a certain employee who can never seem to mind his business. Martin is the doting type, the absolute last person Jon wants privy to this annoying human quirk of his. 

It’s not easy to avoid him. More than once has Martin knocked on his door to ask about tea or lunch from the canteen or to provide a wholly unnecessary update on his research and Jon has had to pinch his nose to force back any sneezes from escaping. Martin is always concerned about him—if he’s eating, if he’s stretching, if he’s heading home at what Martin considers a “reasonable hour” (and Jon quickly finds they have vastly different definitions of _reasonable_ ). It’s confusing to Jon, which makes it suspicious—so much so that it actually circles back around from suspicious to being confusing again. 

Martin is concerned in ways that others aren’t. His worrying, while annoying, is consistent in a way that Jon finds disarming. At first it puts Jon on high alert. Eventually it causes him to lower his guard in ways that he is entirely ill-equipped to analyze. On one occasion he has a very close call. It’s been a particularly bad day allergy-wise, and an incessant tickle deep in his nose he can’t get rid of without succumbing to it a little bit. He’s just let out another desperate stifle into his elbow when Martin pokes his head in to ask if he’s heading home soon. 

“It’s nearly 7, Jon.” 

“Yes Martin, I do have a watch.” 

Jon expects something of a struggle, but Martin just shrugs, leaves him to it. In the back of his mind he registers this as unusual. Martin is the stubborn sort (just like he is, Jon won’t ever admit). It typically takes some convincing to get him to stop fussing over him like a mother hen. It’s good that he relented easily this time. It’s definitely good. Jon continues to remind himself that this is good, and in fact exactly what he wanted all along, as he files away the remainder of today’s folders from the pile on his desk, sniffling all the while. 

* * *

Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, has plenty of embarrassing secrets. Some are more damning than others, like the CV made entirely of lies, or the budding crush on his boss that pesters him during quiet moments at the office or sleepless hours on the cot he now calls a bed in the storage closet he now calls his bedroom. Others, while not putting himself at risk of unemployment, _would_ put his social life in jeopardy if they were spilled, if he had one to begin with (he doesn’t). 

Martin is given a rather crude reminder of one such secret on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday evening when he hears the muffled sound of a sneeze behind Jon’s office door. His body goes hot all over and he thanks the Gods no one can read his mind. He takes a deep breath in and then out again to ground himself. It’s okay. He knows that this happens to him; it’s been this way for years. 

Martin doesn’t give any inclination he’s heard a thing when he pops his head in to check on Jon as usual, although from the discomforted look on Jon’s face it’s clear he’s either suffering from allergies or a head cold. Martin doesn’t ask about it at all, and he isn’t going to think about it either. He won’t dwell on the sound of that sneeze, the low and desperate pitch of it resting heady in his gut. He disengages as soon as possible, pretending to keep busy in the adjacent office until he finally hears the telltale sounds of Jon heading home, his cue to prepare for another sleepover in the archives. 

Unfortunate though it is, for as far back as Martin can remember experiencing arousal at all, he gets inexplicably turned on by the sound of a sneeze. Not any sneeze—a man’s is preferable. Better still if the man in question is already someone he feels a deep attraction to. Someone like, say, his ornery boss, who he’s been having quiet little fantasies about tenderly taking care of for just about as long as he’s been living in the archives. 

He really thought he had this quirk of his under control, satiating any sneeze-related arousal with a host of scenario-based audio clips and written fiction uploaded online to the small but active community of others with the same sort of kinks. It had been enough, before, to listen to anonymous men hitch and hold back until the full power of their sneezes overcame them. It had been sufficient, until now, to read self-insert fantasies of a hapless run-in with a sniffling man on the tube, wherein Martin could imagine himself as the one saving the day with an emergency stash of tissues. 

It only took one sneeze for Martin to replace all those nameless, faceless men with Jon instead. Martin’s favorite sneezes are the loud, wet, entirely uninhibited ones. More often than not now, he lays on that old, oddly smelling cot at night and fantasizes about getting those sorts of sneezes out of Jon. That sole sneeze, it had sounded so stifled. It was sad. If Martin got the chance, he would want to help Jon turn a desperate stifle into a proper sneeze. 

He thinks about gently massaging the prominent bridge of Jon’s nose, coaxing a powerful sneeze out of him, all while whispering soft praise in his ear. He thinks about Jon coming to him, eyes watering and begging for help with one that’s badly stuck. Martin smiles smugly to himself imagining having an excuse to put all his knowledge of inducing sneezes to good use, trying out all sorts of tricks until he finally finds the one that gets Jon the release he so desperately needs.

Martin blushes in the dark of the archives storage room imagining Jon on the precipice of a sneeze he can’t hold back and no tissues within reach. His stomach flutters maddenly as he pictures swooping in to save the day with a little pack of tissues in his back pocket or even the sleeve of his sweatshirt if nothing else. He burns with a mix of arousal and shame at the utter ridiculousness of it. It’s soft, it’s domestic, it’s objectively pretty gross. It’s so appealing it makes him ache with desire for it. 

Sometimes, conjuring these fantasy scenarios with one hand shoved in his pants and the other desperately fisting at his sheets, Martin even imagines his hand is Jon’s instead, jerking him off until he cries, a different sort of release than a sneeze but just as powerful. Jon is not one to ask for favors, after all. He’d want to give something in return, an equal exchange of sorts. Martin spends countless nights fixated on variations of these scenarios, sometimes to get off and sometimes just to indulge in the foolish idea that he might ever get to experience any sort of intimacy with Jon, romantic or otherwise. 

It doesn’t last. As the almost pleasant world Martin has constructed for himself in the archives goes entirely to shit, his momentum dies out. Escapist fantasy hardly seems fair now, would leave him feeling selfish. When the small group of people in his life begin to fall away one by one, quicker than he can properly mourn for them, he all but gives up the idea of ever getting the intimacy he no longer has the luxury to yearn for. It gets buried and it _stays_ buried. That is, it stays buried until Jon reaches into the Lonely and pulls Martin out and guides him up to the weathered safe-house. 

* * *

Jonathan Sims, The Archivist, tucked away with Martin in the Scottish highlands, still hates his allergies. You’d think that _allergies_ of all human flaws would be a thing of the past thanks to his monstrous transformation, but apparently becoming an avatar has only strengthened the most frustratingly human things about him—allergies and feelings. Typical. 

It’s almost funny, in a dark sort of way, that the more Jon’s humanity is dissolved by eldritch monstrosity, the more the remaining shreds of it have begun to bleed through in ways he no longer has the energy to bandage with a sour demeanor. Jon’s exhaustion has brought on a new sort of vulnerability, varied in its forms but all ultimately pointing to _need._ Sometimes _need_ means letting himself be held by Martin, whining softly as Martin plants careful kisses to his neck, his shoulders, the curve of his spine. Other times _need_ is much less poetic, like when he finds himself awake in bed before dawn with that familiar, frustrating tickle in his nose. 

The safe-house isn’t bad. Or, it could be worse. _There could be nothing but the sky above us instead of a roof_ he had joked when they first arrived and Jon saw Martin making a face at the state of the place. The cabin clearly hadn’t been cleaned in a while—probably years. Actually, several days after their arrival, it still hasn’t been given the thorough scrubbing it needs. Jon hasn’t dared to disturb the cobwebs in the corners because he might find spiders. Martin hadn’t wanted to _disturb the spiders._ They’re at a sort of stalemate, which is fine. It’s fine, except that there’s dust everywhere, not yet dealt with, and Jon’s allergies are having a bit of a field day. 

Jon needs to sneeze. He doesn’t want to; he really tries not to. He closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten in the hopes of what? Distracting them? The itching sensation just gets worse, burning now, and he tries holding a finger to his nose but that does nothing either. Desperate, he pinches his nose and the offending sneeze is stifled quietly between his fingers. It hurts a little to hold it back like that, but he doesn’t want to wake up Martin. It’s fine. It was just the one. 

He turns on his side, away from Martin’s soft snores. He sniffles. A mistake, the tickling is back and it’s worse now. Again he pinches his nose, sneezes another painful stifle. _Don’t sneeze, don’t sneeze_ he pleads with himself, but his eyes are watering now too and he sneezes two, three more times through pinched nostrils. Head beginning to throb, he sniffles again, wishes he had a tissue, sneezes another time, not as quietly as he’d like. 

“Mm, bless you.”

His stomach drops as he croaks out a weak _thank you_. He’s woken up Martin. 

“You okay, Jon? Are you sick?”

“N-no, just allergies. It’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Martin is being… Martin. It’s not _annoying_ anymore, not when it’s him, but Jon still has an aversion to being fussed over. He doesn’t know where to _keep_ that sort of thing when it’s placed awkwardly in his hands like a loving gift. 

“Oh.” Martin chuckles, sleep still heavy on his tongue. “Didn’t think allergies were something an avatar would need to worry about.”

“Neither did I,” Jon bemoans, and starts to say something else but is cut off by another sneeze he just barely manages to stifle. 

Martin frowns. “You shouldn’t do that, it’ll hurt. Better to just let them out.” 

“I’m fine.” Another sneeze, another stifle. He rubs his temples. “They’re always like this.”

Martin props himself up with one elbow to face Jon. “If I offered to help you, would you let me?”

“I-I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know. That’s why _I’m_ asking _you_.”

“It’s early,” Jon argues weakly. “You need your sleep.” But another stifled sneeze into his elbow makes his head throb enough to let Martin do whatever it is he thinks will help. 

“Here, lie down on your back for me, okay?” 

Jon obeys, sniffling miserably, and Martin moves to loosely straddle him.

“This okay?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Can I have your hands, please?”

A little confused, Jon moves his hands to Martin’s waiting ones, lets Martin wrap one large hand gently around both his wrists, guiding his arms up above his head. 

“Still okay?”

Jon nods, surprised at how relaxed he feels in such a vulnerable position. 

“Good, now just hold on a moment, alright?” Martin’s voice is gentle and soothing and doesn’t exacerbate Jon’s throbbing headache. He moves his free hand to the bridge of Jon’s nose and begins massaging it gently but purposefully. 

It doesn’t take long before Jon is stuttering out a warning and Martin puts the sleeve of his shirt up to his nose. 

“It’s okay. Sneeze for me.” 

And Jon does—a full sneeze this time. Finally some relief for his throbbing head. Martin pets his head gently, running his fingers carefully through his thick curls so as not to pull on any tangles. “There you go. How’s that?”

Jon sighs. “It’s good.” But not enough. The dust continues to torment him and he sniffles again, the tickle building and making his sinuses burn with the pressure of the building sneeze. “I think I-“ He sneezes, stifling by habit. “I think I could use another?”

Martin kisses his forehead. “I have an idea, if you’ll let me?” and Jon can only nod again. The bed creaks as Martin carefully climbs off so Jon isn’t victim to a knee or an elbow and heads to the toilet, returning shortly with two things. The first is a box of tissues, which Jon didn’t even know they _had_. The second he can only make out in the dark when he squints—-a Q-tip. 

Martin avoids looking right at him. “I’ve, um, read that this helps. We can try, if you want?”

Jon reaches to wrap one scarred hand around Martin’s with the hope he’ll hear—either in his silence or in the creaking of the window panes as the wind desperately begs to come in—how much he needs to be vulnerable to Martin right now, to be prone. Martin sets the box of tissues at Jon’s side and moves to straddle him again, and Jon is suddenly, painfully aware of how badly he wants to let Martin take control of him so he has no choice but to let go of it all. Martin again asks Jon to lie back nearly flat on the bed, then pulls Jon’s arms gently but purposefully above his head once more, holding them there with one hand.

“Still alright? Comfortable?”

“I’m fine.” 

Martin can likely hear the strain in his voice, because he makes that soft _tch_ sound with his tongue that Jon knows (Knows?) is short for _this is why you should let me fuss, sometimes._

 _“_ Just say if you want me to stop, okay?”

Jon sniffles loudly which Martin knows means _just get on with it_ , a request he’s more than happy to oblige. 

Martin says _okay_ like he’s reassuring himself that it is, and gently leaning his weight onto the hand that’s gently cupping Jon’s above his head, he uses the other to drag the Q-tip languidly along the base of one of Jon’s nostrils, too lightly to procure any results.

“Martin.”

He smiles that dimpled smile down at him and Jon can’t even be annoyed, no matter how desperate he is. His chest tightens and he thinks about trying to kiss him but that would require breaking free from Martin’s firm hand, his soft palm a bit sweaty (which is only sort of gross, and not half as gross as Jon feels, so he’ll let that slide). Instead he bites his lip. Definitely not pouting. 

“Sorry, sorry. I won’t tease.” 

Martin sounds almost _smug_ and Jon can’t imagine why but it doesn’t matter because Martin sticks the Q-tip up properly now, just enough that Jon can feel it on all sides as a gentle, circular motion in his nose that tickles tremendously. 

“Anything?”

Jon opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t even get a word out before sneezing once, rather violently, It’s _wonderful_ but quickly becomes _horrible_ because he didn’t even get to warn Martin. His face burns with embarrassment and shame and something else better left unsaid.

“Apologies, I- I didn’t expect it would—“

Martin shushes him (the nerve). “It’s okay, Jon. I don’t mind.” He switches the Q-tip to the other side of his nose without hesitation, using the same circular rhythm that teases and tugs out another powerful sneeze, loud and wet.

Jon whines, both embarrassment and need. “ _Martin.”_

Martin drags his hand down from Jon’s wrists to run fingers through his bed-wrangled curls. “Your body needs this. Will you tell me how it feels?”

Jon sniffs, his nose twitching with the ghost of a tickle. “It feels good.” No, that’s not adequate. Heavenly, rapturous—but this isn’t one of Martin’s poems. “Lovely,” is what he decides on. “It’s lovely. Please don’t stop.” 

“Mm, I won’t. Not until you’re all done.” 

The tickling resumes, Martin paying special care to give each nostril equal attention with small, gentle circles of the cotton tip. It’s more teasing. Martin has to know how much it gets to him, the clawing, burning desperation, seeking release. Or maybe he doesn’t, and Jon needs to tell him. So Jon tells him. 

“ _God,_ Martin. It’s so much.” The sensation building and building, just gradual enough that a sneeze won’t quite come. “A-ah, please. I want-I want to sneeze, Martin. I need to.”

“Are you going to?” Martin takes this moment to push the tip just a little further up Jon’s nose, moving it around just fast enough that it’s unbearable. 

“I-I’m going to. I-It’s-“ Martin brings a tissue up to Jon’s nose just in time for two messy sneezes to escape from him. Jon groans with relief, the pressure in his head finally beginning to relent. He can tell there’s more where those came from, however, so he asks.

“Can you?”

“My pleasure.” 

And it really looks like it is—Martin’s face is flushed and he’s sporting a small, goofy smile that Jon thinks he has not seen nearly enough of. Jon’s not one to raise questions of pleasure, of course. He subtly gives his legs a squeeze, biting his lip so as not to whine at the wonderful friction of damp underwear shifting on his crotch. Normally he’d be mortified, but it’s just Martin here, Martin who has seen much worse from him than a bit of inappropriately timed arousal. 

Martin doesn’t hold back at all now, so neither does Jon, and soon he’s sneezing two, three, four more times, his toes curling and his legs shaking as he lets himself fully feel each and every sneeze throughout his body, lets himself feel Martin’s eyes on him. In Martin’s eyes, Jon is always human. Jon sneezes a final time, body stiffening as the flush of arousal that follows it brings him just short of a very embarrassing climax. That one was so loud he swears it makes the walls rattle, but it’s not as if there’s anyone around to hear.

“There you go, love. That’s it.”

Martin tosses the used tissues and Q-tip in the nearby wastebasket when they both feel sure he’s done. They’re frozen in place, Martin still absently running a hand through Jon’s hair and Jon sighing contentedly beneath him. Jon squirms a bit under Martin’s kind eyes and decides that while he doesn’t want to do anything about his current state, he does want to do something about Martin’s face, flushed red and looking as sweet as can be. He pulls at Martin’s shirt, dragging him gently down into a kiss that lasts much longer than their prior standard.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.” Martin always makes caring sound easy even though it isn’t, Jon thinks. Martin moves to lay beside Jon at the same time Jon tries to sit himself up. Martin’s crotch brushes up against Jon’s knee and Martin _moans_ , shocking them both into a silence that lasts until Martin recovers enough to remove his hand from his mouth and say _I am so sorry, I don’t know where that came from, it’s nothing._

“Martin.”

“J-Jon?”

“You… you liked that? Helping me?”

Martin nods slowly, and Jon knows (Knows) he’s mortified. Jon thinks he’d like to remove the feeling from Martin, the what and the why and the how. Statement ends, et cetera. Instead he scrambles. 

“I’m pleased that you enjoy… assisting me.” He swallows, his throat still dry from dust. “Prior to this, I thought that you must see caretaking as a burden, of sorts. It’s-I’m glad you like taking care of me.” 

Martin looks at him like he’s insane (is he insane?) and says _Jon, Jon… of course I do._

“Can I, erm, return the favor?” 

“In what way?”

“I could touch you. Until you, uh, orgasm. If you’d like.”

“Jon, I know you aren’t interested in that sort of thing. I don’t want you to do something you aren’t comfortable with just because you think you owe me.” 

“No, that’s not-I just don’t enjoy it if my body has to be… involved, I suppose?” He frowns. “I don’t particularly enjoy discussing these sorts of things because my explanations get misconstrued. All I can say is if you’ll take me at my word, I’d be more than glad to indulge your desires.” 

Martin’s blush deepens and spreads out to ears and neck as he nods his agreement. “Um, what should I-“

“You can sit in between my legs, if you’d like. And I can touch you.”

“Okay.”

They shift positions awkwardly, managing to get the angle right only to realize it’s going to be difficult if Martin’s still in his pajama bottoms, so those have to come off, and then they’re both giggling. If not for the heat of Martin’s back pressed into Jon’s stomach and Jon’s hands holding Martin in place Jon might’ve forgotten his promise altogether. 

“Hah-Hope I don’t crush you.”

“You most certainly will not. Besides, there are worse things.”

He eats up the exasperated _Jon_ he gets in return and attempts to pull Martin even closer, though impossible. Martin sighs and lets his head fall back to nest between a bony shoulder and a sharp chin, which Jon takes as an invitation to slide careful hands up under the hem of his shirt, running his fingers up and down the length of Martin’s sides, yielding at times to rub gentle circles into the skin there with his thumbs. He kisses Martin’s jaw and his neck, enjoying the soft whines he’s rewarded with. As much as Jon enjoyed the experience of losing himself in Martin, it doesn’t quite compete with the opportunity to render Martin equally helpless. 

“You know, I half believed you were toying with me.”

“What?”

“Thought you had become aware of the, uh, _state_ you left me in, after helping me, and were making fun.”

“I wouldn’t, Jon. You _know_ I wouldn’t.”

“I… might have an inkling. Thanks to, well.” He doesn’t want to say it’s a Beholding thing, knows Martin won’t make him. 

“A-are you asking me to tell you?”

“No. Not you. Not… not to you.” 

“Well would it help if I did?” And when Jon doesn’t respond, Martin adds “I can tell you what you’ve done to me, what you’re still doing to me. You don’t have to ask. I _want_ to do it.”

“Alright.”

“Y-you, you’ve been on my mind for so long, you know? I mean before it was… it was different. It was before Prentiss attacked, and things weren’t so… heavy? I heard you once, sneezing that is. And I know it’s-it’s _weird_ and all but I’ve always been like that with sneezes. I just never thought about acting on it until you. And I never thought I _would_ act on it, because I didn’t think you’d ever want that. I-I promise this wasn’t some orchestrated plot, or something. It’s been a while since I’ve had any fantasies about it, actually. Bit distracted by the, um, you know. Awful horrors and all.”

There’s a lot of information here, and Jon sees each bit as a piece to the puzzle that is Martin, but one piece stands out to him above the rest, and he has to place that one first.

“I’d like to know about the fantasies.”

“A lot of what we just did, to be honest? And, uh. Sometimes you touching me, afterwards. Rubbing me off. You helping me get my release the way I helped you get yours, that sort of thing?” Jon swoons a bit watching Martin’s flushed cheeks as he puts this to words for probably the first time in his life, kisses him there to reassure him. 

“Mm, then maybe I should get to that.”

Martin squirms. “Y-yeah. I’m ready,” and he spreads his legs apart to punctuate it.

Jon wastes no time sliding a hand under the waistband of his underwear, marveling at how wet he already is. So it really wasn’t just him enjoying it, which is quite relieving. “I’m-I’m not compelling you, but does this feel good?”

Martin digs his nails into the fabric of Jon’s pajamas and whines his approval. “So good, you’re so good.” So Jon keeps going, one hand continuing to rub circles around Martin’s clit, the other now also sliding below his waistband to tease at his folds, two fingers ghosting at his hole, questioning. 

“Is penetration okay with you?”

" _Very_ okay. God.” He moans as Jon slides himself in easily, crooking his fingers up and in over and over. 

“Love how you sound, so soaked for me.” Jon doesn’t even know where that came from. Maybe he hasn’t forgotten _everything_ he learned from Georgie, after all. It doesn’t matter; all that matters is that it gets Martin to moan louder, more desperately, to beg him. 

“Please, don’t stop. Don’t stop t-talking,” he chokes out, and clearly talking is becoming more and more of a challenge for him at this juncture so Jon decides to pick up the slack. 

“Those sneezes were so good, Martin. You made me feel so good. I wish I’d had your help before. Felt so lovely to let go, to not hold back.” Martin whines and tries to meet Jon’s fingers with small, desperate rolls of his hips. “You liked what a mess I made, didn’t you? I saw it in your eyes. You adored it. Like I adore you like this, making a mess of my fingers.” 

“Oh _god._ J-Jon.” Martin’s all whimpers now, reduced to desperate noises and even more desperate thrusts of his pelvis to meet Jon’s eager hands. “I’m… _Fuck_ I’m going to come.”

Jon simply hums and speeds up his movements, grinding a palm into Martin’s dick until he comes with a shout. Jon fucks him through it, taking note of every desperate whine and whimper as Martin rides out his orgasm. He slowly slides his hands back out of Martin’s boxers, which are soaked. It’s definitely a mess, but sometimes a mess is worth the trouble. 

When Martin lets his legs slide down, weak and shaky and content, Jon kisses his hair affectionately and moves to take care of the cleanup. It’s the least he can do.

“Mm, thank you, Jon. That was… really good. Sorry about the, uh, the mess.”

“Right. Well, it’s a good thing we’ve got tissues.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The bravest, kindest souls are the ones who leave comments on nsfw fics :-)


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